Mother stewed gravelly-looking liveror uriney-smelling kidneys for dinner;but we sat, straight as a queen, please,at the dining-room tablewhile she lit one cigarette from anotheron weeknights,my father endlessly away on business.At my Aunt's, the cook did steaks,served by a uniformed maid.Candlelight reflected in royal blue glasseswhich the maid with a silver pitcher filledwith milk or lemonade.

We became window-shoppers,devotees of make-believe, knew where the best pondsfor ice skating were,the library like it was our own.In Mother's opinion the relatives were nouveau richeand my cousins, spoiled. They drove sleek carsfast through town;the children hadcharge accounts at the drug store for ice cream cones and sundaes;belonged to the country club,could buy cocoa by a roaring fire,while we trudged homewith frozen toes.

"You don't need money to be socially acceptable in Boston,"Mother declared one day, signing me up as a scholarship studentat an old school in Back Bay.We still didn't have any money.but I identified with the March girlsand Jane Austen's heroines,except Emma,so it was okay.